The Last Changeling by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online

could hear it even through the walls of the cart, though the walls had probably strained out most of its power. Maggie Light was singing the words to an old tune
,
one Snail could sort of remember and almost name
.
    The gate between the trees is open.
    The way will be quite steep.
    Stones as hard as hearts the markers.
    Do not weep, child, do not weep.
    Her voice was as clear as glass, as sharp as a knife, as comforting as a lullaby. The soldiers seemed stunned, mouths open. The captain had begun to drool. The lieutenant tried to struggle a bit against the magic; got one finger up to his ear, before he, too, went slack-jawed.
    Without going under, you can’t get through.
    You are the path that has been made.
    Leaves can tremble without falling,
    Shadows cast can still give shade.
    Aspen’s fingers had fallen from the strings. He, too, was charmed, mazed.
    Only the dwarfs and the professor seemed untouched by the song. And Snail, somehow secure inside the cart, was untouched as well, the walls having kept her safe from the spell.
    One foot, then, and now the next one,
    Forward, downward, going deep.
    Turn over stones, remark the Under.
    Do not weep, child, do not weep.
    The professor walked over to the lieutenant and then the captain, whispering in their ears. Then he came back to Aspen and put a hand on his shoulder, spun him around, caught the lute when it started to drop from the prince’s flaccid fingers. Then he walked Aspen, all unresisting, up the stairs and into the cart.
    Maggie Light’s song stopped.
    The dwarfs took out whatever had been stuffed into their ears.
    The captain and lieutenant looked around as if wondering what they were doing there. Then they signaled to the soldiers to remount, got back on their horses themselves, and rode off.
    As a show, Snail thought, it had everything—good characters, tense action, and a happy ending.
    But as real life
—
well
, she thought,
it’s very odd indeed
.

ASPEN AWAKENS
    S
he was beautiful. A silver goddess with a voice of gold. She didn’t ask what tune Aspen was playing, and he’d never before heard the lyrics she sang. Had not even known the song
had
lyrics. But somehow they fit. No, they more than fit. They meshed. They melded. They grew into something greater than a song. Something that enraptured and captured and . . .
    â€œPut me to sleep?” Aspen came to himself with a start. It must have all been a dream. He lay on a large, soft bed, richly surrounded by silken pillows of gold and silver.
    I don’t remember any goddess!
he thought desperately, sitting up.
I don’t remember this bed. This place.
How long have I been dreaming?
    Then he realized that he must be inside the players’ wagon, the very place he had been trying to get to when everything had fallen apart.
    The wagon!
The soldiers!
    That’s when he had an additional thought:
How far have we traveled?
    He looked for a window to check the rate of their speed and saw a large one, which was very strange to him because castle windows are always mere arrow slits, built that way in case of an assault. This window overlooked a field of stunning flowers, and even stranger, they were not moving.
    I don’t remember fields of flowers
, he thought, still drowsy. And then he had a further thought:
The wagon must be as becalmed as a sailing ship on a breezeless ocean
.
    He had never sailed on the ocean, though he had a vague memory of watching from a cliff-top far north of Astaeri Palace as a two-masted boat with an oddly round body headed for the northern islands. It was winter and his tiny hand clasped in his mother’s firm grip was the only part of him that felt warm and protected from the cold, whipping wind.
    His only other ocean memory was from a song. He began to sing it to himself, trying to recall where he’d heard it.
    The water is wide, my dear,
    The water is deep.
    The strand is long, my dear,
    But love will